


Fire and Ice

by Navman20



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Cousin Incest, Fluff, Half-Sibling Incest, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jonsa babies - Freeform, Past Abuse, R plus L equals J, Romance, Smut, but it's really, but they don't know it yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-12-08 15:21:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11649327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Navman20/pseuds/Navman20
Summary: The War for the Dawn looms on the horizon. As the Long Night draws nearer, the game of thrones comes to a head. At the center of it all is the Prince That Was Promised and his Princess.





	1. A Flame in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows canon up to Jon's death, after which it diverges to some extent. Most Season 6 storylines other than the ones centering around Jon and Sansa will remain the same for the most part, but some will delve deep into AU territory. Jon and Sansa's storyline has some similarities to the show in the beginning, but diverges sharply after a certain point.

The shade trudged across the ice-covered land, his breath coming out in puffs of frigid white smoke. Hoarfrost covered the towering trees, their leaves taken thousands of years ago by the first winds of winter. The shade kept walking. Monstrous wolves paced nearby; thin, sharp icicles hung from their coal-black fur as they bore fangs as sharp as daggers. The shade turned his gaze upwards to look at the night sky. The heavens were blanketed in green and blue waves of light, swirling and dancing across the sky, slicing through the pervasive darkness, bathing the dark landscape in a dim effervescent light. An ethereal voice cut through the deafening silence. A woman’s voice, soft and lilting, sweet but strong. “Jon”, the voice whispered. The ground below began to shake and a rumbling noise filled the air. The shade looked to the empty horizon, the ice stretching as far as his eye could see. The noise stopped, and all was quiet once more. Suddenly a pillar of fire erupted on the horizon, rocketing towards the sky as if trying to touch the stars. The pillar began to move towards the shade, melting the icy landscape and scorching all in its path, roaring with a ferocity that shook heaven and earth. The world grew brighter and hotter as the pillar hurtled towards the shade. He walked closer to the conflagration, as if drawn towards it by some invisible force. He stretched a lifeless, skeletal hand towards the flames. A smile crossed his bony, gaunt face and he closed his eyes as the inferno engulfed him in a torrent of embers. 

His eyes flew open with a gasp. He lay on the cold, hard table, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts. All he felt was pain. A searing pain that made Jon feel as if he had been set on fire. He opened his mouth to scream, but found himself unable to do so. The only thought in his head was, _I shouldn’t be here._ His limbs tight and stiff, Jon slowly rose into a sitting position. As he gazed down at his chest, he gasped in horror at the sight he saw. His torso was marred by seven ghastly stab wounds that were still open and leaking rivulets of blood. He reached down and lightly pressed on the fissure directly above his heart. He jolted as a piercing pain shot through his body. _How was any of this possible?_ A whimper from the corner interrupted his musings.

“Ghost,” Jon said, his voice cracking from either disuse or emotion, he didn’t know which. “Ghost. I’m here boy.”          

Ghost trudged over to Jon’s side, and stared at him with his blood-red eyes. Jon raised a shaking hand, and reached out to stroke the direwolf’s snow-white fur. As he buried his hand in Ghost’s shaggy mane, tears trickled down his face. _I didn’t know dead men had tears._ As he sat naked on the table, scratching Ghost behind the ears, the door to the room flew open and slammed into the wall. In the doorway, jaw hanging wide open and eyes bulging almost out of their sockets, stood a confounded Davos Seaworth. 

“Lord Commander? You're alive. By the Seven. The Red Lady was right,” he whispered. 

Jon looked at Davos, his face blank as a slate. “Cold,” he said.

Davos walked slowly into the room, his calm visage masking the shock and confusion roiling beneath. He removed his cloak, and wrapped it around Jon’s shivering naked form. 

Jon’s face was as white as snow. He whispered in a wavering voice, “I-I tried to do what I thought was right. I thought bringing the wildlings south of the Wall would be the only way to save them from the Long Night. And I got killed for it. I can’t go out there. I can’t face the men.” 

Davos placed a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “I understand. You feel like you failed. But you didn’t. You were dead, and now you're awake and alive. That should be impossible. Yet here you are. The wildlings are safe south of the wall. You saved thousands of them, and that’s something to be proud of. Now, I think you should-“ 

Davos’ monologue was interrupted by a loud bang as the door was almost knocked off its hinges to reveal a disheveled and wide-eyed Melisandre. She walked slowly towards Jon, and stood motionless, staring at his face with fiery red eyes that bored into his mind like a red-hot needle. 

“What did you see Jon?” 

Jon took a moment to register her comment before replying. “What?”

“When died, what did you see in the world beyond?

Jon’s face grew even paler than it had been before, and he began to breath in raggedy gasps. He recounted his vision to his paltry, stunned audience. Once he had finished his tale, Melisandre asked, “Anything else? Was there anything else?”

Jon shook his head, his inky black curls bouncing to and fro. “Nothing else.”

“It seems to me that the time has come for you to look into the flames. Perhaps they will reveal the meaning of your vision to you. Come Jon Snow. There is much to do.” Melisandre and Davos helped Jon get off the table, and onto his feet. Jon felt as if he was learning to walk for the first time again. They led him to the hearth, where a fire crackled softly. A pair of clothes was neatly folded on the rug, and Longclaw lay sheathed beside it. “I kept this by my side after you died Jon. I didn’t want Alliser Throne and his men to have it,” Davos said as he indicated towards the Valyrian steel sword. Jon nodded his thanks, put on the leather clothes, and wrapped his black fur cloak around him. He slowly knelt on the bearskin rug, relishing the feel of the soft fur on his knees. Ghost curled up next to Jon on the rug, and closed his eyes as he entered a deep slumber. “Look into the flames Jon Snow. Let the Lord of Light speak to you. Let him show you purpose, let him guide you through the journey that awaits you,” the Red Lady whispered cryptically in Jon’s ear.

Jon gazed into the fire. Tongues of orange and red flames waltzed across the stack of burning logs. Jon was mesmerized by the fiery dance and inched closer to the hearth. Bolts of heat lanced through his body, erasing the vestigial remnants of the cold that had enveloped him outside in the snow, filling his form with energy. He stared at the fire, spellbound by its majestic simplicity, when he suddenly felt the world around him twist and turn, morphing into something unknown.


	2. A Call to Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter. I know it was a bit expository, but I promise the plot will move faster from here on out. I wanted to get a chapter in before tonight's episode. I really hope D&D don't jump the shark with Jon and Daenerys. As always, comments are welcome.

When the world finally stopped spinning, Jon gasped in shock by what he saw. He was in a dimly lit room, where the faint torch light cast ominous shadows along the rough hewn stone wall. A bed was laid near the wall, and the windows were all barred with planks of hard oak and bound with rusted iron chains. Jon looked around the room for a moment before he realized where he was. _Robb’s room._ He was in Winterfell. He was _home._ How many times had the two of them played in this room? This was the room where they had talked about how much of an arse Theon Greyjoy was, the room where they had played as knights and kings. Jon remembered one instance where he and Arya had stuffed frogs under Robb’s pillow after he made fun of Arya’s stitching. The two of them laughed until their stomachs hurt when they heard a loud scream tear through the air that night. The memories flooded Jon’s head, and he felt a pang of pain in his gut. He was torn from his reverie by a cry coming from the bed on the far side of the room. Jon got up and walked silently across the room. When he saw who it was that lay on the bed, his eyes filled with tears and his body went numb. _Sansa._

He hadn’t seen her in almost six years. Not since he left Winterfell for the wall. It seemed so long ago. She was thin and gaunt, her long, flowing red hair spread across the pillow like liquid fire. She turned onto her side, away from Jon, whimpering in pain as she did so. An incredible fury filled Jon as he saw the bloodstains on the back of her shift. Her body began to quiver, from pain or from the cold Jon didn’t know. She turned towards Jon. Sansa had always been beautiful, even when they both were children. But now, she was angelic. Her prominent Tully features and her fire-kissed hair were breathtaking. _Her hair is like Ygritte’s._ The thought of Ygritte sent a flash of pain through Jon’s heart once more. Sansa opened her eyes, and began to weep. Her eyes were as blue as the ocean at Eastwatch. They bored into the very depths of the soul. The sound of her sobs was more painful than any of the daggers that pierced his flesh. 

“Sansa. It’s okay. I’m here. It’s me, Jon. I’ll get you out of here.” Jon’s voice broke as he tried to speak to Sansa, but she gave no sign of recognition. Jon reached out to stroke her hair, but was baffled as his hand passed right through her head as if he was made of smoke. _This must be a vision._ “Sansa. I’ll come back for you. I promise sweetling.”

Jon tore himself away from the supine form of his sister, and walked out the door, or rather, through the door. _What happened to Winterfell? Why is Sansa here?_ A barrage of questions hurtled through Jon’s brain, but he had no answer to any of them. As he moved down the corridor, a bloodcurdling scream rent the air from the Great Hall below. Jon broke into a sprint, and barreled down the stairs to a horrific sight. A man was strapped to a cross with his head near the floor. In front of him, a man clad in black leather held a bloody knife aloft, before viciously slicing a patch of skin off of his unfortunate victim’s torso. The man screamed, “Mercy Lord Ramsay! Mercy!”

The man Jon assumed was Lord Bolton threw his head back, and laughed. His laugh sounded like a vulture cawing as it picked bits of flesh off a corpse. He punched the man in the gut. “You will address me as Lord Bolton or I will rip your tongue out and make you swallow it. Why would I show you mercy? You tried to kidnap my wife. If you will not tell me why, I will feed you to my hounds after I’ve finished cutting all your fucking skin off you filthy rat! Then, I’m going to flay the next man in your insolent band, and the next, and the next! And when I’m done with all of you, I’m going to teach my wife not to run off with strangers.” Bolton plunged his knife into the man’s arm, and the screaming continued. 

Bolton’s words shook Jon to the core. “ _My wife.” Sansa. His wife is Sansa._ The very thought of that beast laying a hand on his sister filled Jon with white-hot rage. _I have to get her out of here!_ The Great Hall of Winterfell melted into the small chamber of Castle Black where he snapped out of the vision.

“I have to leave. I have to go back to Winterfell.”

Melisandre gripped his shoulders. “What is it? What did you see?”

Jon met her gaze, his eyes filled with the fires of fury. “My sister Sansa is a prisoner in Winterfell. Ramsay Bolton is torturing her. I have to get her out of there before he kills her!” Jon tried to stand up but his legs betrayed him. His knees buckled and he would have fallen to the floor had Ser Davos not caught him. 

“Jon you are in no condition to even walk, much less break Ramsay Bolton’s wife out of the most heavily guarded castle north of the Neck. You need to rest before you can even think of stepping out those gates, and there is a more pressing matter at hand. Your murderers. Edd led the wildlings to the wall where they overthrow those of the Night’s Watch loyal to Thorne and his men. The wildlings killed three of the men who stabbed you in the fighting. The murderers who survived you are currently in the ice cells awaiting judgement. What would you have the men do to them?” 

Jon’s eyes steeled over, and his face contorted in anger. “I will hang them myself.” 

Davos nodded grimly. “But first, I think there are some people you should see.” He helped Jon to his feet. Jon fastened Longclaw to his belt, and slowly shuffled to the door, unwilling to strain his weak legs. He took a deep breath before opening the door to the cruel world beyond. 

A crowd of wildlings and brothers of the Night’s Watch alike was assembled at the foot of the stairs. Jon heard a gasp from one of the Watch. The next thing he knew, he was spitting out mouthfuls of fur, and his ribs were being crushed. “I thought you were gone for good Jon. You came back to us mate.” Jon stared into the stunned face of Dolorous Edd. 

“I’m alive Edd. I don’t know how, but I’m alive.” Jon smiled at his loyal friend, a man whom he was proud to call brother. 

“I knew you were a special one when Ygritte brought you to Mance’s tent King Crow.” Tormund Giantsbane guffawed from the audience below. In a flash of a moment, the jocund expression was replaced with a grim one. “The men think you’re some kind of god. The man who returned from the dead. Are you?”

Jon shivered at the thought of men revering him as a godlike-figure. “I’m not a god. I’m just Jon Snow. Or I was. Now, I’m not sure who I am anymore.”

Tormund nodded to Jon and began to speak in a somber tone. “We captured the crows that stabbed you Snow. They’re up there freezing their peckers off in those ice cells. What do you want to do with them?”

Jon stood firm against the railing and spoke, his voice loud and clear for the first time since his resurrection. “Remove Ser Alliser and his men from the ice cells and escort them to the gallows. They betrayed their Lord Commander and murdered him. Their punishment shall be death by hanging.” He turned and walked into his chamber, closing the door behind him. 

Jon drew Longclaw and began sharpening it with a whetstone. Sharpening his sword was something that gave him comfort. The knowledge that if a threat came, he would have a weapon ready to defend himself with. However, Jon was not sharpening his sword for a fight this time. This time, he was sharpening it for revenge. He kept grinding the blade on the stone for what seemed like hours until a sharp knock on the door jolted him from his task. “Come in,” he said.

Dolorous Edd poked his head in the doorway, his face dour as usual. “It’s time.” Jon nodded, rose from his chair and sheathed Longclaw. He followed Edd out the door to the gallows that awaited him. He walked slowly to the gallows, the crowd of wildlings and brothers of the Night’s Watch alike, parting like an ocean to make way for him. When he reached the gallows, he looked up at the men condemned to die.

Bowen Marsh had been a good friend of Jon’s since his first day at Castle Black. The steward had always been kind to him. He never belittled him because of his parentage, never forced him to do undesirable tasks, and never treated him unfairly. Othell Yarwyck was a brilliant man whom Jon had personally picked to oversee the rebuilding of Castle Black following Mance Rayder’s attack on the wall. Regardless of how the man had treated him, Jon had always had a grudging respect for Alliser Thorne’s unwillingness to compromise his morals and his sheer fighting ability. 

When Jon turned to the last traitor fitted with a noose, his heart clenched. _Olly._ Olly had been the son Jon never had. He personally trained the boy, taught him, ate with him, laughed with him, and traded stories with him. As he knelt in the snow that fateful night, his life draining out from the wounds on his chest, Jon never thought that he could be in more pain. But when he saw the boy step out from behind Thorne, dagger in hand, the pain then had been too great to handle. And when he drove his blade into Jon’s heart, Jon realized how badly he had misjudged the boy.

Jon steeled himself and unsheathed Longclaw. “Do you have any last words before your sentence is carried out?” Marsh and Yarwyck spoke their words and closed their eyes in preparation for the inevitable. Jon moved to Thorne. The man who had made his life a living hell since he stepped through the gates of Castle Black. “Ser Alliser?”

“Lord Snow. You did what you thought was right when you brought the wildlings south of the Wall, and I did what I thought was right when I stabbed you near the gates. I did what I did because I thought it was the only way to save the Watch, and to save us all. I fought, I lost, and now I rest. But you. Lord Snow. You’ll never know peace. You’ll be fighting the battles of other men and women till the day the world crumbles. I pity you Lord Snow. I pity you.” 

Jon glared at the man who had tormented him mercilessly for the past six years. The man who had taken everything from him. His honor, his dignity, Ygritte, his life. “ Ser Alliser. I hope you find the peace you seek someday.”

He moved down the line, dreading the face of his final victim. “Olly.” The boy glared down at Jon with a look of unimaginable hatred on his face. Jon’s voice broke as he said, “Do you have any last words?” Olly simply glared at Jon and stood in cold silence. Jon slowly walked over to the rope, and gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. _How can I kill Olly?_ Regardless of what Olly had done, he was still a boy. A boy who was younger than Bran would have been had his younger brother lived. A boy who had murdered the man who treated him like a son. Pain wracked Jon’s chest, in the exact spot where Olly had delivered the killing blow. An icy fist clenched Jon’s heart in a vice-like grip, refusing to release him from the cycle of violence that had claimed the last six years of his life. Jon closed his eyes and without thinking, raised his sword high, and swung it down in one fluid motion. The sharp Valyrian steel rippled through the air and cut the rope in two, sending the traitors to their deaths. 

The plank of wood upon which the men stood was ripped out from beneath their feet, sending the men dropping to the icy ground below, until their nooses broke their fall, snapping their necks and choking their throats. They thrashed around, struggling to breathe in a final gulp of air. Horrid choking noises filled the air. _I have to look. I have to watch the fruit of my actions._ Jon stood his ground and stared emotionlessly at the gallows as the men who killed him reaped the rewards of their traitorous deed. They stopped flailing and went still, the only sound remaining being the creaking of the ropes as they swung slowly from the wooden bar overhead. Jon looked at Olly’s face. It had gone blue, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He was dead.

Jon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. Edd put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s over Jon.” _No Edd. It’s never over._ Jon sheathed his sword, and removed his Lord Commander’s cloak. He gave it to Edd, who looked at him in surprise and disbelief. “What do you want me to do with it Jon?

“Wear it. Burn it. I don’t care. You have Castle Black Lord Commander,” Jon said with a somber look on his face.

“You can’t abandon the watch. You swore an oath to stand by your post-” 

“Until my death. Aye. I died, and now I’m back.”

Jon walked down the stairs, and through the crowd of men who looked at him in awe. “I gave my life to the Watch, and I stood by my post till the end. My watch has ended. I’m going home.”

 


	3. The Prodigal Son Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who have read my story so far. Hope you enjoy!

Jon strode through the snowy courtyard of Castle Black. _How the fuck am I going to free Sansa?_ Winterfell was the most heavily guarded fortress in the North. Under his father’s rule, hundreds of men prowled the corridors at night, armed to the teeth with swords, spears, and daggers. The archers in the parapets could spot a target from almost half a mile away and pick it down with ease. Jon imagined that security could have only grown tighter now that the castle was under the control of the Boltons. He made his way to his chambers, where he was greeted by a mournful Ghost curled up by the fire. Ghost let out a low whimper. “I know boy. I’m tired too.” Jon lowered himself to the rug and sat next to Ghost. “What do you think we should do?” he asked as he stroked the direwolf’s shaggy white pelt. He received no reply. Jon sighed. He heard a knock at the door, and warily stood up, drawing his sword and getting into a defensive stance. “Come in,” he said cautiously. The door opened, revealing the Red Woman.

She walked into the room, and removed her red cloak, powdery white snow falling from her hood as she did so. Her hair was the darkest shade of red Jon had seen, and her eyes were like pools of liquid fire. _What is it with this woman and red?_ “Lord Snow. I trust you are well.”

Jon sighed. “I’ve seen better days. It helps that I’m not dead, but I feel as if I’ve been crushed by a giant. And I’ve seen quite a few giants.”

Melisandre smiled at him, but there was not warmth in her smile. “You have a long and treacherous journey ahead of you.” 

“I know that. I’m trying to break into the strongest castle in the North and free my sister from the clutches of a man who likes to skin people alive for his own amusement. What do I do?” Jon’s voice rose, causing Ghost to growl as if to tell Jon to calm himself.

“I understand you are conflicted Lord Snow. The Lord of Light has brought you back for a reason. I have seen you, fighting outside the walls of Winterfell. I believe that the Lord has a special purpose for you. You may find that even in the darkest moments of uncertainty, there is always an answer, but only you can find the answer you seek.” She nodded slowly at Jon, and turned towards the door. Before she left the room, she stopped and looked at Jon. “I thought Stannis was the Prince that was Promised, and I was wrong. But someone has to be. What will you be Jon Snow?” With that, she left the room, closing the door slowly behind her.

Jon stood motionless in the center of the room. _What was that she said about a Prince that was Promised? What the fuck does that even mean?_ The Red Woman’s ways had always been a mystery to him, but there was no denying that there was something mystical about her. Jon made his way to the hearth, and crouched on his haunches in front of the crackling conflagration. Once again, he found himself drawn to the dancing flames, as a moth drawn to a candle. An eerie feeling flooded through his body as he watched the flames crackle and snap, burning the pile of logs to ash and smoke. He felt his hand move towards the fire, as if controlled by some unknown entity. _What the fuck is going on?_ Jon tried to crawl away, but he was rooted in place. He knew that fire was dangerous, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. There was something about the fire that drew him in, coaxing and cajoling him. His hand touched the flame and he screamed.

He saw a hand drive a sword into a heart tree in a dense forest. Instantly, he was transported to a land covered in ice. The sky rapidly changed from day to night and night to day. Flashes of his past overcame him. His father, his childhood at Winterfell as he sparred with Robb. Arya hugging him when he called her “Little sister.” He saw Ygritte, the woman who had changed his world. The vision abruptly shifted, and he saw things he could not possibly have seen in person. A leather-clad man driving a sword into Robb’s heart as Catelyn Stark screamed in agony. Ilyn Payne slicing his father’s head off with his own sword. Sansa huddled in the corner of a room, weeping piteously as a man advanced towards her, a belt dangling from his hand. Bran falling from the tower, screaming as he hurtled towards the hard ground. Arya wandering a stone-covered street, her eyes glazed over, blood streaming down her face. 

Jon was flung back from the hearth by the force of the visions, and they ceased as quickly as they had started. “I’ve failed them all,” he sobbed. “They’re all gone, and I didn’t do anything to help them.” All except Sansa. Sansa. He would not fail her. Not while he had failed to save the rest of his family. Ghost plodded over to Jon and licked his master’s tears away. 

“Thanks boy. I know what I have to do now.”

Jon got up, and walked over to the mirror. He cast off his heavy fur clothing, and put on a simple leather soldier’s outfit. _Like the one father wore._ Ned Stark had shown his children his gear from back when the realm was embroiled in Robert’s Rebellion. While Robb had instantly fallen in love with his father’s armor, Jon had been awe-struck by the leather uniform, black and grey, emblazoned with the Stark sigil. The last thing the enemy saw before Ice ended their lives. Jon let out a shuddering breath, and drew Longclaw. The sword had been his constant companion for so many years. _A bastard sword for the Bastard of Winterfell._ The aptness was too sweet, he thought. He ran his thumb along the flat of the Valyrian steel blade, admiring the way the dragon-forged metal rippled in the light of the fire. He sheathed his sword in one fluid motion. Taking one last look at himself in the mirror, he made his way out the door. Jon briskly strode through the snow-filled courtyard with his sword strapped to his belt, and Ghost at his heels. Almost running towards the gate, Jon was filled with a sense of anxiety. _What did the vision mean? The hand stabbed a heart tree with a sword. That’d probably piss off the Old Gods at best._ Pushing the worrying thoughts out of his head, Jon called out the man operating the gate. “Oy Will! Open the gate!” The man nodded and cranked the lever that slowly opened the black gate. 

The land beyond the Wall wasn’t much different from the land south of it in terms of climate and landscape. The snowy ground and tall pine trees, swaying slightly in the cold winter wind reminded Jon of the Wolfswood. _I’m going to be back there soon. I swear it._ Jon trudged through the powdery snow, with Ghost right at his heels, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he tried to lick the snow, only to yelp as the biting cold frost hit his tongue. 

A familiar sight appeared to Jon as they went to the small godswood where Jon had sworn his vows to the Watch all those years ago. Jon couldn’t help but smile at the irony. The very place where he had sworn his vows was the same place where he would formally break them. He walked through the godswood, and towards the looming heart tree. The tree was as tall as the one back in Winterfell. Jon drew Longclaw, and poised himself to drive the sword into the tree. He glanced at the face carved into the trunk of the tree. It was grotesque, with wide eyes, a grimacing mouth, and red sap leaking out of the orifices. _That’s what Bolton’s face is going to look like when I’m through with him._ With a grunt of effort, he thrust the Valyrian steel sword into the trunk of the tree, right between the two eyes of the face. The sword buried itself almost to the hilt, and the tree began to shake. The wind roared, and the leaves of the heart tree rattled in the force of the gale. Ghost howled for the first time in Jon’s memory. It was a beautiful sound, mournful yet strong, loud yet quiet at the same time. The wind picked up speed, causing snow and leaves to fly through the air, buffeting Jon and Ghost. Mustering all his strength, he wrenched the sword out of the tree and was instantly blinded by a bright light. _Why is it so fucking hot all of a sudden? I’m beyond the damn wall!_ Jon’s confusion died away instantly when his vision cleared and he saw his sword. Longclaw’s blade was wreathed in a roaring orange flame, and the ruby eyes of the wolf-head pommel were glowing as if there was a fire hidden beneath the ivory surface. 

Jon gaped in shock. _My sword is on fire._ He gave Longclaw a tentative swing. The flames rippled as the blade cleaved through the air. _It sounds like someone humming. Now how do I stop the flames?_ No sooner had the thought crossed Jon’s mind, than the flames extinguished themselves. _Interesting. Tormund will shit himself when he sees this._ Jon chuckled to himself softly. “C’mon Ghost. Let’s go back. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.”

When he reached his room, he gathered food and provisions for the journey. The Wall was a three-day ride from Winterfell, and it would be blisteringly cold on the way south. When he decided that he was packed and ready, he whistled to alert Ghost. The two of them made their way to the courtyard where a white stallion was waiting for them. Davos and Melisandre stood by. 

“When you’ve freed your sister, where will you go?” Davos asked.

“Not every house in the North is loyal to the Boltons. Some families remember the Starks and are willing to fight for them. I think I know someone who’ll keep us safe.”

Davos nodded and held out his hand. “Farewell Jon Snow. I shall stay with the Free Folk and help them get acclimated to life south of the Wall. I’ve grown quite fond of them if I must admit. Their ways, albeit peculiar, are interesting to say the least. Send a raven at your earliest convenience, and we shall proceed from there.”

Jon and Davos laughed at that statement. “You’re not wrong about that Ser Davos. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.” Jon turned to the Red Lady who was uncharacteristically quiet. 

“Jon Snow. You have a long road ahead of you. I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.” With that, she bowed and walked back to her chambers. _She is an enigma._

“I’ll miss you Jon.” Dolorous Edd stood a few yards away from Jon as he saddled his horse.

“I’ll miss you too Edd. Without you, I wouldn’t be standing here today. The Watch is in good hands, Lord Commander.” Jon chuckled and held out his hand to a visibly bashful Edd. 

“If you told me back when I joined the Watch while I was cleaning the shitters that I’d be Lord Commander one day, I’d have thrown shit in your face and told you to fuck off. Now here I am, and you came back from the dead. The world is fucking strange ain’t it?” Edd smirked and clasped Jon’s hand. “Stay safe my friend.” Edd stepped back and shouted at the man at the gate. “Open the gate!” 

Jon watched the gates of Castle Black slowly swing open. “Come on Ghost. Let’s go.” The horse trotted slowly out the gate, its lone rider looking back at the place he had called home for so many years. Jon looked back at Castle Black for the last time, as the gates closed on a chapter of his life he would never forget.

The next few days were quite uneventful, and calm. Almost too calm for Jon’s liking. Jon and Ghost had not encountered another person since leaving the Wall. The weather had taken a sharp turn for the worse though. The freezing winter winds had reached incredibly high speeds, and the cold was no less exacerbated by the fact that snow was blanketing the ground at an alarming rate. _I guess Father was bound to be right one day. Winter really is here._ As Jon and Ghost made their way through the dense forest, he felt a familiar feeling run down his spine. _Home. We’re close._ Eventually, the woods came to an end, and Jon found himself looking at a sight he thought he’d never see again. The castle of Winterfell loomed above Jon, dwarfing anything and anyone near it. Jon was filled with joy. _I’m home._ Ghost began to pant eagerly and licked Jon’s hand. “I know boy. I know. We’re home. Now you wait here in the woods. You’ll blend in with the snow. Keep out of sight, and I’ll come for you when I’ve got Sansa. Got it boy?” Jon wondered for a moment if he was stupid enough to believe that a wolf could understand such long instructions, but to his surprise, Ghost licked his hand and sauntered off into the woods. 

Jon spurred his horse forward, drawing his cloak around him, and pulling his scarf upwards to cover the lower half of his face, effectively concealing his appearance. He noticed a large group of riders approaching Winterfell from the east, and riding out of the woods. “Hyah!” Jon kicked his horse into action, and galloped after the group. As he approached the vanguard, Jon spotted a lone rider drop back, and clamber off his horse. The man planted his spear and shield in the ground. One of the riders shouted at him, “Hey Arnold! The fuck are you doin’?” The man Jon assumed was Arnold shouted at his group. “Oy! I’m takin’ a piss over ‘ere!” The riders ahead of him laughed and one of them shouted back, “Don’t freeze your cock off!” The gates of Winterfell opened in the distance, and the band of soldiers rode in. Jon knew instantly what he had to do. He got off his horse, tied it to a tree, and ran through the woods towards Arnold. His back was facing Jon, and he was whistling to himself as he began to urinate on the trunk of a tree. Jon pulled his dagger out of his belt, and crept up behind him. He reached around Arnold, and slit his throat in one fluid motion, the warm red blood spattering across the snowy ground. Arnold gurgled his final moments, and dropped to the ground with a thud. _This is too easy._

Jon stripped Arnold of his Bolton uniform, and removed his own Night’s Watch blacks. He put on the Bolton uniform, and fastened Arnold’s belt tightly around his waist. _It’s a bit loose for my taste._ Jon strapped Longclaw to his back and grabbed the spear and shield. The shield was emblazoned with the standard Bolton sigil. A pink flayed man on an X-shaped cross. It was a sigil that struck fear into the hearts of the weak. Jon untied his horse, and put on the Bolton cavalry helmet, shielding his face from sight. “Hyah!” With the shield on his back, and the spear in one hand, Jon snapped the horse’s reins, and galloped towards the gates. His heart began to beat faster with every step towards the castle. _I’m really doing this. I’m really breaking into Winterfell._ When he reached the gates, he heard a shout from above. “State your business!” Jon shouted back, “I’m with the vanguard! I was taking a piss so I fell behind! Let me in!” Jon swore he heard the man at the top say, “Fucking cavalry pricks,” before calling for the gates to be opened. The tall wooden gates of Winterfell slowly swung open, and Jon rode into the castle for the first time in years. The gates closed behind him with an ominous boom. Jon looked around at the courtyard. There were Bolton soldiers everywhere. The Stark banners had been taken down and replaced with the flayed man of House Bolton. Two crosses had been erected in the center of the courtyard, with men nailed to the posts. Their skin had been completely torn off, and Jon could see their muscle and sinew. Blood stained the snow around the crosses, and he felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was in enemy territory now. _Welcome home Jon Snow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a good ol'-fashioned flaming sword to brighten your day eh? And RIP Arnold amirite? He will be missed.


	4. In the Belly of the Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's up you magnificent people? I'm back after a long, undeserved rest. School and life finally caught up with me, and I completely forgot about this fic until recently. Okay, nostalgia is over. Let's get right back into the thick of it with some juicy returns and reunions.

A chill ran down Jon’s spine as he walked across the snowy courtyard. This wasn’t home. The place in which he grew, played, trained, and was raised was long gone. The warm feeling that normally filled his bones in Winterfell was replaced with an icy feeling in his stomach. The bodies of the flayed men hung lifelessly from the crosses upon which they were nailed as if they were a monument to the Bolton regime. Jon gulped in nervousness at the savage display of cruelty that he saw.  _ What happened here?  _ A soldier roughly shoved him out of the way, carrying a torch in his hands. He thrust the flame at the base of each cross, and Jon watched with growing fear as the skinless corpses burst into flames, filling the air with the scent of charred flesh. A scent, Jon was only too familiar with, having burned many of his brothers of the Nights Watch.  _ They’re not my brothers anymore.  _

 

The Bolton soldiers were on edge. Jon could see it in their eyes. He had no idea what could have happened to have them so terrified. He neared the stairwell with trepidation. 

 

“Oy you!” Jon began to climb the stairs, hoping that he wouldn’t be noticed. 

 

“You on the stairs! Get your fat arse over here and take these bodies to the kennels! Lord Bolton wants his bitches fed!”

 

_ His bitches?  _

 

Jon gulped and slowly made his way back down the stairs. He saw the man who had shouted at him and his eyes went wide.  _ Smalljon. The fuck is he doing here? _

 

Smalljon Umber stood wide and tall in the courtyard, easily dwarfing any of the cowering Bolton men around him. A stack of rotted corpses lay on a wheelbarrow, the stench already wafting towards Jon and making him gag in disgust. 

 

As Jon neared the heir to the Last Hearth, Umber’s eyes narrowed. “I fucking know you.”

 

Jon stopped dead in his tracks.  _ Shit shit shit shit. _

 

“You’re that cunt who got his balls cut off by that Mormont bitch! Daryn’s your name right?”

 

Jon didn’t know whether to feel relieved that he hadn’t been recognized, or insulted that he had been mistaken for eunuch. Nonetheless, he nodded his head.

 

Umber threw his head back and howled in laughter. It was a terrifying sound, deep and nasty. “Ah you fucking cockless prick. When you’re done feeding the bitches, report to Lord Bolton’s chambers. I knew he liked having you cockless wonders around him. Probably cause he’s afraid anyone else would fuck his pretty wife. I’ll tell you, nothing gets me harder than a redhead. Damn I’d like to fuck her!” He smirked to himself and trudged off. 

 

Jon’s blood boiled.  _ I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch.  _ He grabbed hold of the wheelbarrow, and pushed it towards the kennels.  _ I wonder if they still got Farlen running the kennels. It’d be nice to see someone who isn’t a massive shit. _

 

Instinctively, he moved towards the kennels. Though it had been almost six years since he had left home, he knew the path like he had walked it yesterday.  _ First day back, and I’m dragging a bunch of dead bodies. _

 

He turned a corner, the wheelbarrow creaking and skipping across the rough hewn path, towards the kennel. 

 

Right outside the entrance, there were two skeletons laying on the snow. One was wide and tall, while the other was the size of an infant. They both had bits of flesh and muscle dangling from the bones.  _ What sort of monster would do this? _

 

Jon walked into the kennels, and was surrounded by barking on all sides. In the cages that lined the walls were feral hounds, slavering and pawing furiously at the bars. Jon opened the only empty cage on the far wall, and dumped the bodies in. The hounds immediately swarmed the corpses, tearing and ripping at the flesh and devouring it hungrily. There was a bed of straw strewn haphazardly in the corner of the cage, and with a sinking feeling, Jon realized that someone was sleeping there regularly. 

 

Jon made his way out of the kennels and walked towards the Great Hall, as he anticipated his first conversation with the famed Bastard of the Dreadfort while pulling the visor of his helm down so his face was shielded.

 

A group of soldiers marched into the Great Hall, and Jon sprinted to catch up with them. He fell in line with the rest of the phalanx, and his heart pounded as he entered his home.

 

Ramsay Bolton sat in the lord’s seat where Ned Stark once sat.  _ He doesn’t deserve to lick the dirt of my father’s boots.  _ The smell of corpses, which Jon had become all too familiar with filled the hall. Jon turned his head in the direction of the smell and was horrified to see Roose Bolton’s head mounted on a spike.  _ He fucking killed his own father! _

 

The bastard stepped down from his chair and paced in front of the soldiers who had arranged themselves in a line. Jon had only ever seen Ramsay in the vision, and that too from afar. In person, he was terrible to look at. His sharp black eyes stood out against his sallow, milk-colored skin. He was of average height, and was neither fat nor thin. His cheeks were gaunt, and when he smiled, his teeth were stained yellow.  _ Ugly fuck.  _ He eyed them up and down. His eyes were piercing as he passed by Jon, as if he was flaying him with his gaze. Jon had never been more thankful for the helmet covering his eyes. 

 

“There is a traitor in this castle. Someone attempted to free my wife from her chambers and smuggle her out of the castle. While Lady Bolton has been punished for her treason, the fact remains that someone in this castle willingly defied me and tried to set her free. I found a note in my lady wife’s possession outlining plans for escape addressed to someone called ‘The Beauty”. Now I know that means none of you are complicit, because you’re the ugliest bunch of bastards this side of the Wall. My wife refused to divulge the name of her accomplice even under intense…. interrogation. “

 

Jon clenched his hands and tried with every fiber of his being not to beat the bastard to death right then and there.  _ Sansa, I will make sure he dies. Slowly and painfully. For you.  _

 

“Now I want you all to search the castle thoroughly. You three, stay back and guard Lady Bolton’s chambers.” Ramsay pointed at Jon and two other men. One of the men was grossly fat, almost to the point of rivaling Lord Manderly with his immense girth. The other however, was tall and muscular, with scars etched deeply into his face.  _ You two are going to be the bitches’ breakfast tomorrow.  _

 

Ramsay took a deep breath and glared at the men. “Get your fucking arses out of here, and FIND THAT TRAITOR!” 

 

Jon and his “partners in crime” headed out of the Great Hall. While clutching Longclaw’s hilt, Jon prepared himself for what he had to do.  _ It’s now or never. _ They headed up the stairs to the chambers of what used to be Jon’s family. “Oy Harren. Think Lord Bolton’s gonna give us some whores tonight?” the scarred one chuckled to his heavyset counterpart.

 

The fat one, Harren, laughed garishly, his jowls and globs of fat shaking. “I hope so. I’ve got one nice blonde with my name written across her face.” 

 

“You better not crush her with those massive tits of yours Harren!” 

 

“Piss off Ray you cunt!” Harren punched his friend in the shoulder. 

 

The muscular one, Ray, turned to Jon and said, “Ain’t you the cockless one?”

 

Jon snarled back, “Yeah. Lost my cock cause I tried to fuck one of ‘em Mormont bitches.”

 

Ray and Harlen guffawed as the trio entered the bedroom wing. Jon swallowed his pride and followed them, hoping they would lead him to Sansa. They stopped in front of Robb’s room, and Jon felt a pang in his heart.  _ I’ll get her out of here brother. I’ll keep her safe.  _ As they stood, Jon heard quiet sobs from behind him. Ray laughed, “I bet Lord Bolton beat the wolf-bitch good this time.” 

 

Rage filled Jon’s being. His sister had been tortured by this sadistic bastard, and here were these two fuckers, laughing about it like it was nothing. Swift as a falcon, Jon drew Longclaw from his sheath, pointed it at Ray’s neck.

“What the fuck do you think yer doing eunuch?” Ray’s eyes went cross-eyed as he stared down the point of the sleek Valyrian steel blade. Harlen drew his sword, which looked like a toothpick in his oversized hand. His hand was shaking so badly that he dropped the sword, cursing as he struggled to bend to pick it up.

 

Seizing the opportunity, Jon shoved the Valyrian steel sword through Ray’s neck. The blade made a satisfying squishing noise as it tore through the traitorous Bolton soldier’s flesh. As quickly as he had thrust it in, he pulled the blade out of the soldier’s corpse, the body falling to the ground with a wet  _ THUNK.  _ Harlen picked up his sword and swung it at him. Jon almost laughed at the pathetic excuse for a killing blow. Having spent years training under Rodrik Cassel, the finest swordsman in the North bar Ned Stark himself, and years more fighting wildlings, traitors, and White Walkers beyond the Wall, swordplay had become second nature to Jon. He easily sidestepped the blow, and 

punched Harlen in his oversized gut with as much force as he could muster. The bloated soldier was knocked across the hall and fell to the ground near the stairs as the wind was knocked out of him by the force of the blow. 

 

Harlen began to sob and crawl away from Jon, making his way to the stairs. “Please! Please spare me!” Jon strode over to the man, and planted the heel of his boot in his stomach with all his force, drawing a scream of agony from the supine soldier. Lowering Longclaw to Harlen’s chest, he said with a vindictive tone, “Burn in hell you son of a bitch.” He raised Longclaw above his head and stabbed down with all his force, piercing straight through Harlen’s armor. The blade slid through layers and layers of flesh and bone, before embedding itself in the wood with a thunk. Harlen’s eyes widened and bulged before stilling one last time. Jon wrenched the sword from Harlen’s corpse.  _ Well that was easier than I expected. _

 

He slowly moved towards Robb’s  _ no Sansa’s  _ door and tentatively grasped the handle and pushed. It was locked. He pushed again and again to no avail, before stepping back a few paces, and charging at the locked wooden frame, hurling the full force of his body against it. The rotted wooden planks posed no challenge to Jon’s muscular frame and splintered to bits upon impact sending Jon hurtling into the room. 

 

Nearly stumbling over the wooden planks, Jon righted himself before focusing on the sole inhabitant of the room.  _ Sansa.  _ Jon was filled with anguish as he gazed at his sister. Sansa sat huddled in the corner of the room, her arms wrapped around her knees as she sobbed piteously. Her head was bent and her body shook violently. “P-please. P-please don’t g-get Lord B-Bolton. Please d-don’t hurt me.” Jon’s heart broke for his once innocent sister, brutalized and beaten by a cruel world that had no mercy for a gentle soul like her. Jon ripped his helmet off, and flung it to the side. In a shaky voice, he addressed his sister for the first time in over half a decade. “S-sansa. It’s me, Jon. Your brother. I’m here.”

 

Sansa raised her head to reveal bloodshot blue eyes the color of the sky and long red hair the color of a dying flame. Her eyes widened in recognition as she gasped in shock. “J-jon. You’re alive!. I never thought I’d see you again!” Her voice broke at the end, and a sob caught in her throat. 

 

Jon smiled weakly for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, and slowly walked towards his sister. “Yes sweetling. It’s me, Jon. I’m here to get you out of here. I’m here to protect you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are much appreciated. Do you guys like the direction the story is taking? Any suggestions about where to go next from here? See you at the next update.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, so let me know what you think in the comments. Any questions, concerns, suggestions? Please let me know.


End file.
